


Five Dates that Weren't, and One that Was

by moonlighten



Series: Feel the Fear [68]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Background Relationships, M/M, Requited Love, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-08
Updated: 2013-01-08
Packaged: 2017-11-24 05:06:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/630740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonlighten/pseuds/moonlighten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>December 1997 to August 2010: Five times England and America didn't go out on a date, and one time that they did.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 'Date' One

**Author's Note:**

> Written for jedishampoo.

**18th December, 1997; London, England**  
  
  
England finds himself distracted for a moment by studying his reflection in the full-length mirror on the inside of his wardrobe door instead of concentrating on picking a shirt.  
  
His hair still somewhat resembles a startled blond hedgehog perched atop his head despite the ten minutes of determined effort he'd spent with a brush, comb and even a small amount of the sticky, foul-smelling goo that Northern Ireland uses to carefully style his own hair every morning so that it remains looking like he's just got out of bed throughout the day. And, he notes with some alarm, he seems to be a little softer around the middle than usual, something which is no doubt attributable to the large number of Christmas functions and festive liquid lunches he's attended recently. It would perhaps behoove him to join Scotland on one or two of his hikes in the new year as his brother is always suggesting, even though it will probably result in one of them pushing the other down a ravine at some point.  
  
The extra weight doesn't seem to have affected either his arms or his legs, which are as scrawny as ever, and – he turns a little to check – he still has no arse to speak of. All in all, it's a slightly disheartening sight.  
  
And completely irrelevant to his evening's plans, he reminds himself firmly, grabbing hold of a random selection of shirts.  
  
He eventually decides on a light blue shirt – starched and impeccably pressed – and a dark grey tie which perfectly matches his Savile Row suit. Over that, he shrugs his heavy black cashmere overcoat, and thus armoured, quickly jogs out of his bedroom and downstairs towards the front door.  
  
Not quickly enough, it appears, as Scotland calls out to him as he passes the living room. "Where are you off to in such a hurry?"  
  
"None of your business," England calls back, fumbling desperately through his voluminous coat pockets in search of his key, and turning up nothing but handkerchiefs, lint, and the odd little snips of paper and receipts which always seem to accumulate in his pockets despite him never having any recollection of having put them there. If he'd only got around to replacing his ancient lock with a Yale as he'd been meaning to for the past few years, then he'd be halfway to his car by now and out of range of the argument that Scotland's no doubt already busily constructing in his head.  
  
The angry response he expects is not forthcoming, however, and it's Wales who speaks up next: "If you're off to see America," he shouts, "he rang this morning to say he's going to be running about an hour late."  
  
England's jaw clenches so abruptly and so hard that he fears he may later discover he's sprained something. "And you didn't think to tell me this earlier because…?"  
  
"Bloody hell, England," Wales shoots back, "I'm not your fucking secretary. If it's that important to you, you can make sure you answer the damn phone yourself in future."  
  
England could set off now and kill the extra time he's suddenly found himself with wandering aimlessly through London on his own or in a pub, but it's cold and dark outside, and he's completely overdressed for any of his favourite haunts. Reluctantly, he decides that joining his brothers in the living room is the best of the woeful set of choices available to him, temporarily deferred arguments notwithstanding.  
  
Wales is sprawled facedown on one sofa, arms and legs flung wide, but he looks up as England walks past him, heading towards his favourite armchair, and cocks one eyebrow.  
  
"You're looking smart," he observes before letting his head slump back down once more.  
  
England had not intended to dress any differently than he usually would for an evening out with a companion, and the fact that he had failed to notice that he had apparently done so anyway makes him feel oddly embarrassed, which, in turn, irritates him. That particular mix of emotions always puts him on the defensive, and so he snaps, "At least I don't go out dressed like I fell in the reject pile at a charity shop, unlike some people."  
  
Wales' shoulders lift slightly in as near to a shrug as he can manage in his current position, apparently unconcerned by the observation, but Scotland glares at England from the other sofa, arms folded tightly across his chest.  
  
England matches his glare with one of equal intensity. "I can't imagine you give a shit about my opinion of your dress sense, or lack thereof, Scotland, so, come on. Out with it. What exactly is your problem?"  
  
"Well, it might have been nice if you'd let us know that one of our weans was in the country," Scotland says, his tone snappish. "Maybe we would have liked the chance to meet up with him, too."  
  
"Look, he's flying out again at five tomorrow, so we're not planning on doing anything particularly exciting. Just some last minute Christmas shopping, perhaps, then a few drinks." England strives to kept his voice flat and toneless in an effort to make the prospect sound as dull as possible. As though he were only going himself out of the goodness of his heart and foresees gaining absolutely no pleasure in it. "You won't be missing anything."  
  
Wales scrambles up into a sitting position.  "I still need to get a present for Jane."  
  
"And I'm always in need of a few drinks," Scotland says.  
  
Beyond their mutual antipathy towards spending more time together than is strictly necessary, England can't think of a single good reason why they shouldn't accompany him. There are plenty of bad reasons, the ones that England does not allow his mind to linger on, but he'd much rather subject himself to any amount of his brothers' company than admit them aloud.  
  
"Fucking hell, I suppose you can come, then," he says, exasperated and cursing himself for not thinking of sneaking out by way of the garage in the first place.  
  
Scotland, smug bastard that he is, smiles triumphantly. "I'll go and tell North. I'm sure he won't want to miss out, either."  
  
  


* * *

  
  
If America is even a little disappointed that England isn't alone, it certainly doesn't show in his expression. Quite the contrary, in fact, given the way he launches himself at Scotland to enfold him in a hug that's far too exuberant for a public space.  
  
Scotland doesn't flinch, or try to struggle free as he normally would when he was sober and had physical contact inflicted upon him unexpectedly. Instead, he returns the embrace with seemingly equal enthusiasm, and says, "It's good to see you, lad."  
  
After he's broken free, America thumps Northern Ireland's shoulder playfully and ruffles his hair, completely destroying its carefully cultivated untidiness and rendering it simply messy, and then, and only then, does he acknowledge England's presence.  
  
England prepares himself to dodge the hug which he's concerned is forthcoming, because he has no desire to be manhandled in a hotel lobby, but it doesn't come. America simply nods and says, "Hey, England." His eyes then flit towards Wales, and there's a small but noticeable pause before he adds, "Wales."  
  
Wales definitely notices. "Hello, America," he says curtly, pressing his lips into a thin, unhappy line afterwards.  
  
America, oblivious as ever, grins at him, and then asks, "So, what's the plan for tonight?"  
  
The question's directed towards England, but Scotland jumps in with all of his usual disregard for the rules of civil conversation.  
  
"We," he says, draping an arm around America's shoulders, "are going to get so pissed that they'll have to pour you into your seat when you get onto that aeroplane tomorrow morning."  
  
Which wasn't even close to the plan at all, but Scotland has started dragging America towards the hotel bar before he has chance to argue otherwise. Their heads bend close together as they walk, apparently already caught up in a conversation.  
  
England has to force down a searing-hot swell of anger which threatens to engulf him as he watches their fast-disappearing backs. He has always resented the way his brothers – Scotland in particular – monopolise America's time when they get together. It's been that way since America was a boy, and Scotland was forever tempting the lad away from his lessons to go hunting, exploring, or playing puerile pranks on poor Canada and , more often than not, England himself.  
  
It's one of his bad reasons; although not even close to approaching his worst.


	2. 'Date' Two

**1st June, 2003; Évian, France**  
_(Day before the start of a G-8 Summit; Évian-les-Bains)_  
  


 

"So, are you going to this thing at France's place tonight?" America asks as he and England wait for the lift that will take them up to their hotel rooms.  
  
"'Thing'?" England echoes, immediately suspicious. In the past, he'd received many such vague invitations from France, and, on the rare occasions that he'd been foolish enough to accept them, had found himself walking into the midst of far more bacchanalian revels than he had simple drinks and nibbles. "What sort of 'thing'?"  
  
"It's a soirée," America lingers over the word, pronouncing it with a ridiculously exaggerated French accent, "at the apartment he's borrowed for the summit."  
  
Which is the first England has heard of it. Not that he's particularly surprised; his invitations had tailed off rather rapidly once France finally realised that England's immediate reaction to stumbling unwittingly upon an orgy in full swing was turning right around and leaving rather than ripping his clothes off and joining in. When it comes to drinks and nibbles that aren't mandated by their bosses, on the other hand, they both prefer not to be trapped in each other's company if at all possible.  
  
"I wasn't invited," he says, shrugging.  
  
America frowns. "I thought everyone was. Maybe he just forgot to tell you?"  
  
"I'm fairly certain it was deliberate." England can reluctantly admit to a faint nip of remorse at the thought of missing out on the spread France will no doubt put on – for all England might wish otherwise, there's no denying the frog can cook – but even that is unlikely to be adequate compensation for being subjected to the other nation for an evening. "But I won't be losing any sleep over it, in any case."  
  
The look America turns on England now is, to England's eye, faintly pitying, as though he believes England is just putting on a brave face, and will in fact spend the evening either crying into his pillow or drinking himself insensate over France's snub. Drinking himself insensate is indeed an option England has considered, but that is the case every evening, independent of his mood, and nothing whatsoever to do with France.  
  
Before England can set him straight, however, America says, "You should come with me, as my guest. That way you don't have to miss out," and England is sure he detected the briefest of pauses before the word 'guest'. Nothing more than a slightly suspended breath, but long enough that a person would have sufficient time to deliberate between the choice of two words during it, nevertheless.  
  
At that thought, blood rushes to England's cheeks, his chest tightens, and he faintly hears himself saying, "Yes, I will. That would be…" before he catches himself and stops his overeager tongue.  
  
America's answering smile radiates nothing more than guileless happiness, however; nary a hint of a shadow of a suggestion in his expression that he might have meant anything other than exactly what he said. The heat in England's cheeks intensifies, and he busies himself with pressing the lift button again to give him an excuse to turn his head aside. He's beginning to think that the bloody thing is actually broken and not just incredibly slow, which would be typical of his luck.  
  
"Awesome," America says, and England pinpoints his tone as lying somewhere in the region of 'your presence there will be mildly diverting' rather than 'I wouldn't have been able to enjoy myself if you'd said no'. Which, of course, is always the case, and England really should stop allowing himself to think otherwise and getting his hopes up only to have them dashed over and over a-fucking-gain. It's a skill that seems to be beyond his ken, however, as he's no closer to mastering it than he had been almost sixty years ago when he first discovered he might have need of it.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
England's earlier suspicions are not rekindled by the disgruntled look France gives him upon answering the apartment door, as he is, after all, an uninvited guest and even the best of hosts could be forgiven for being less than welcoming towards party crashers.  
  
They are rekindled, however, by the way that France's shirt is parted almost to his navel, by his bare feet and, most importantly, the lack of noise emanating from the apartment behind him. There is no conversation, no sound of other bodies moving around, only the muted strains of some classical piece or other, too faint for England to put a name to it.  
  
France favours England with one of his more piercing glares and a curt, " _Angleterre_ ," before turning a fawning smile on to America. "It's wonderful to see you, America," he says, rolling the name around his mouth as though he's savouring a fine brandy, "but I fear we might have misunderstood each other. Yours was a _private_ invitation."  
  
"But it's a party," America protests. "The more people, the better, right?"  
  
"That may be true for most parties, but not all of them. For some parties, one guest is all that's required," France says, his gaze sharpening into something closer to a leer. It's a leer that clearly states that awkward small talk and platters of canapés feature absolutely nowhere on his schedule for the night, and he intends that the party will adjourn to his bedroom sooner rather than later.  
  
England is immediately torn between the desire to get as far away from the apartment as quickly as he can, and the equally strong one to plant himself as firmly as possible between America and France's plainly lecherous designs on his person. Those conflicting desires only serve to root him to the spot, and he just about manages to stammer out, "I should," before his words run headlong into the insurmountable barrier formed by the both of them.  
  
To England's surprise – because America hardly ever touches him nowadays when he's sober; England makes careful note every time it happens, and thus knows it to be an exceptionally rare occurrence – America's hand closes tight around the top of his arm, effectively holding him in place even if his indecision hadn't already wrought exactly that same effect.  
  
"Come on, France; can't he just stay for a little while? It took us ages to find this place, and neither of us have eaten, so."  
  
America leaves the sentence hanging, and his eyes become round and wide behind his glasses, fixing France with the same begging look he has employed on England ever since he was a child. When it catches him off-guard, that look will have England offering America anything he wants without question, but France appears impervious to it.  
  
He starts to shake his head, but the movement is suddenly aborted as his eyes narrow in a way England does not like. It suggests that he is hastily amending his plans, and no doubt expanding them to include yet another of his pathetic attempts at persuading England to shag him. Still, forewarned is forearmed, and England doubts there's a single trick in France's repertoire he hasn't seen and rebuffed a thousand times or more before. They're all stale and tired nowadays, and not half as shocking to England as France seems to think they are. His move, when he makes it, will no doubt be off-putting and disagreeable, but nothing England can't handle.  
  
"Of course," France says, gesturing for both America _and_ England to follow him back into the apartment. "Please, come in."  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
France glances at the label of the wine that England had brought with him because he was a good guest no matter the host, but it clearly doesn't quite meet his standards as he puts it to one side and pours himself and America a small glass from the bottle he had already selected and uncorked. England knows that his wine will only go to waste if he doesn't drink it himself now that it has been deemed unworthy, so takes it along with an empty glass when France ushers them into the living room.    
  
The apartment is decorated in much the same style as France's own – all stark colours and minimal furniture – and the living room contains only a huge television, white leather sofa, and one high-backed, under-padded armchair. The sofa is barely wide enough to seat two, never mind three, and, predictably, France plonks himself next to America as soon as he sits down upon it, leaving England to discover if the armchair really is as uncomfortable as it looks.  
  
It is.  
  
England fills his glass to the brim with his inferior wine.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
The first course of the light meal France has prepared consists of oysters. The second is accompanied by asparagus. And dessert is a completely barefaced combination of chocolate mousse with chocolate dipped strawberries on the side, and a small glass of champagne to wash it down.  
  
"You're still about as subtle as a brick, I see," England observes over the rim of his second glass of wine.  
  
France ignores him.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
England's third and fourth glasses insulate him against the way that France has slowly crept along the sofa to the point where he's only one more shuffle away from sitting in America's lap, the horrible studied nonchalance with which he keeps finding excuses to smooth down America's hair or adjust his spectacles, and even the whispered conversations they keep having that make America smile or maybe laugh a little, as though the frog actually has something to say that's worth listening to.  
  
They do nothing, however, to help England blank out the sight of France's hand settling on America's thigh. Nor does the sixth – hurriedly downed in two huge, gulping swallows – invalidate that hand's slow, insidious slide upwards.  
  
England jumps to his feet, vision swimming for a moment as his brain dips and swirls vertiginously from the sudden change in position. "You," he says, pointing a finger at France once he stops flickering in and out of focus. "I need to speak to you. Alone. Right now."  
  
France rolls his eyes, but, astonishingly, stands up and then lets England drag him into the kitchen without protest.  
  
"Maybe you should piss on him, _Angleterre_ ," he drawls as soon as England shuts the door behind them, "just to make your feelings a little clearer."  
  
"It's not like that," England snaps reflexively. "It's just…" And England cannot think of a single other justification in that moment, with his blood still pounding in his ears. He stutters into silence, and France's lips curve into a knowing smile.  
  
"It's just what? Surely you're not feeling neglected?" France's voice is all sing-song mockery, obviously not believing his own words and simply toying with England because he's the biggest bastard England has ever known, his siblings included. "I can easily remedy that. You only had to ask."  
  
He reaches out, and starts to lightly run the tip of one finger up the centre of England's chest. England slaps it away and growls, "Fuck off. Of course it's not that, it's just…"  
  
"It's just that you wish you were in my place," France says when England falters again, voice dropping low. "That it was your hands touching him instead of mine, your mouth –"  
  
"Scotland." England didn't want to say the name, but it's the only defence he can lay his hands on. The only shield he can throw up against hearing words he can barely stand to listen to whisper in the back of his own mind spoken aloud.  
  
France's brow furrows. "What about Scotland?"  
  
"You're…" England swallows hard, takes a deep breath to steel himself, and forces out the words he normally tries his hardest to avoid ever voicing. "You're together, aren't you? What would he think if he knew you were… carrying on like this?"  
  
"I shouldn't think he would care," France says, puzzlement bleeding away from his face with a short burst of laughter. "I have my _diversions_ , and he has his. It's always been that way."  
  
England has not noticed – not that he pays too close attention, mind – his brother having any _diversions_ other than France for nigh-on a century, but it's not a subject he wants to dwell on overmuch, even if it might win him an argument with France.  
  
"You're completely shameless. Has it never occurred to you that perhaps it wouldn't matter who it was?" he says, attempting to steer the conversation towards his general disgust for France's behaviour in the hope that it will deflect the other nation's attention away from the specifics. "That perhaps it would be good manners to wait until I was out of the fucking room before you started trying to make yourself acquainted with his –"  
  
France's laughter this time is much fuller and more sustained. "Acquainted?" he asks as it dies down to a breathy chuckle. "I'm already well acquainted, Angleterre. _Reacquainted_ , however, I –"  
  
England punches him.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
"Here," America says, placing something cold and damp in England's outstretched hand. "That should help take the swelling down."  
  
England presses the something – he can't make out what it is; the nearby streetlights are too dim to do anything other than highlight the darkness, and his eyes are swollen almost shut besides – against the side of his face. It makes his cuts sting, and the increase in pressure against his jaw shifts a loosened and cracked molar slightly out of alignment, making it throb as the nerve is exposed. His legs start to shake, threatening to give out beneath him, and he lets himself sink down to sit at the edge of the pavement below, hoping it looks a little more like a conscious decision than it feels.  
  
At least, he thinks, he was able to walk out of the apartment unsupported, which was more than could be said for France, who had to be carried to bed by America. Who then left with England. If it's a victory, it feels like a pyrrhic one. France might be sleeping alone tonight, but then so will England, and now England knows there was a time – perhaps more than once? the possibility makes England feel even more nauseated than the blow to his head had done – when France had shared his bed with America.  
  
There's a part of England's mind that seems to take joy in those thoughts which cause him the most pain, and it insists on asking the question of not only how many times it had happened, but _when_ it had begun.  
  
The answer he has ignored for centuries comes echoing back from the very deepest, most shadowed recesses of his memory: _They seemed very close after America's revol_ –    
  
England jabs his loose tooth viciously with his tongue, and the sharp stab of pain that shoots through his temple drowns that answer out.


	3. 'Date' Three

**21st July, 2005; London, England**   
_(First Test of the Ashes; Lord's Cricket Ground, St John's Wood)_   
  


 

England has very simple rules about touching America.  
  
Actually, it's only one rule, but it is very simple; just one word: DON'T. The uppercase is important, England feels, and sometimes, when the grip on his self-control is particularly precarious, he imagines it in bold. And underlined.  
  
At this moment, however, his mental image of that word is bold, _double_ underlined, and flashing a bright, warning red.  
  
America had nodded off about half an hour after they arrived at Lord's, and over the course of what remained of morning, had sunk deeper and deeper into his chair, legs sprawling, until his head had eventually come to a rest against England's shoulder not ten minutes ago. England hasn't even dared to look at him since then, so he's aware of nothing more than the slow cadence of America's breathing, loud even over the sound of the crowd, and the weight and warmth of him, seeping through England's thin shirt at every point where their bodies touch.  
  
America shifts slightly, fingers briefly tangling in the material of England's sleeve as though he's scrabbling for purchase before he resettles himself again. In his new position, the corner of his glasses bites deeply into the top of England's bicep, and England has to lace his own fingers together to stop himself from leaning over and slipping them from his face. It's such a small gesture, and both of them would no doubt be more comfortable for England having made it, but England cannot – does not – trust himself to stop there.   
  
If he lets himself remove America's glasses, then why not smooth back the strands of hair he's sure are splayed across the curve of his shoulder afterwards? And after he's neatened sleep-ruffled hair, why not pull America a little closer to his side, hold him steady and halt his slow but inevitable slide off his chair?   
  
And what if his actions were to wake America? More than likely, America would simply shove England away and laugh at him for fussing, but what if he didn't? It's one of England's worst thoughts – one that makes him angry at himself for weeks whenever it manages to sneak past the barriers he has thrown up around it in his mind – but he still has to admit there is a chance that America might respond favourably, instead. Granted, it's a chance so slim as to be approaching non-existence, but if America pressed forward instead of pulling back, if he pushed for greater intimacy, then where would that leave England?  
  
Sex, even amongst their kind, is usually a fleeting thing, and England has to weigh it against what could be an eternity without his magic if he ever succumbed to temptation. It is a choice he has faced many times before, and his decision has always been the same.   
  
Is still the same, England reminds himself forcefully. He's not like his brothers, willing to throw away the vast wellspring of power they once had at their fingertips for an ephemeral moment of pleasure. He is stronger than that. He will persevere.  
  
England closes his eyes, and concentrates on taking deep, steadying breaths until the ache of need that America's proximity has wrapped tight around his muscles has seeped safely away. Then, he raps his knuckles smartly against the top of America's thick skull.  
  
England's rule has two exceptions; two circumstances in which he is allowed to lay hands on America. One, to remove him from immediate physical danger, and two, as a correctional aid to draw America's attention to whatever boorish behaviour he might be engaged in at the time. As lolling all over England as though he's simply another piece of furniture definitely falls under the 'boorish' clause, England feels the contact is fully justified.  
  
America awakes with a snort, arms flailing, and the back of one of his hands brushes lightly across England's cheek. England feels sure enough of himself again now to ignore it, however.  
  
"What was that for?" America asks, his voice dragging tiredly.   
  
Now that he's awake, England feels able to look at him again. America's face is flushed, glasses knocked askew, and his hair is indeed mussed beyond easy repair. All in all, he paints a faintly ridiculous picture, which is nothing but a relief.  
  
"I assumed that you couldn't follow the match very well with your eyes closed," England tells him.  
  
"I fell asleep?" America chuckles. "I guess I must have been even more bored than I thought."  
  
England welcomes his irritation; it's a long-familiar emotion where America's concerned and much more comfortable to deal with than the newer feelings which keep trying to supplant it.  
  
"Bored? This is the first day of the… Do you know how hard it was to get tickets for today?" It wasn't at all – England always receives two tickets to every Ashes match – but he isn't about to pass up the chance to nurture his irritation into full blown anger, even if it is built on a lie.   
  
"You know I've always thought cricket's boring." America sounds a little irritated himself, now, as well as sleepy. "You probably should have given the other one to someone else."   
  
There were plenty of other nations who would probably have better appreciated the ticket, even if some of them – namely his brothers – would have enjoyed the opportunity to annoy England by cheering on Australia's team right beside him more than they would the game itself.  The fact remained that they still would have enjoyed themselves, which is more than can be said for America, apparently. England can't even remember now why he did invite America, but he suspects his motivations at the time probably weren't particularly noble.  
  
"You used to like it when you were younger," England points out. "Even begged me to teach you how to play it, if I recall correctly."  
  
"I did?" America looks honestly baffled. "Well, that was back before I had my own, better games, I guess. I don't remember any of the rules now, though. I couldn't even tell you what," America quickly scans the pitch, eyes darting back and forth before settling on one of England's players, whom he nods towards, "that guy's doing."  
  
"He's fielding, Alfred," England says slowly, a little unsure whether or nor America is actually taking the piss now. "Mid-wicket, to be precise. Honestly, it's not really that dissimilar to baseball."  
  
"Except it's much, much more boring," America says, shaking his head. "Look, why don't you try explaining what's going on again. Maybe I'd be able to stay awake if I could follow the game."

 

* * *

  
  
Before England and America have chance to leave their seats when play breaks for lunch, Australia descends upon them, grinning broadly.  
  
"How you doing, old man?" he says to England, plopping himself down in the recently-vacated chair next to America. "Still hopeful?"  
  
England scowls at him. "Of course I'm still hopeful. It's only the first bloody day."  
  
"Always the optimist, but how long has it been now?" Australia cups his chin in one hand, feigning deep concentration. "Fifteen years?"  
  
"Eighteen," England says sharply, "as you well know."  
  
"Eighteen. How could I have forgotten that?" Australia's grin springs back as quickly as though it had never left.  
  
England's dealings with Australia are usually very cordial, his feelings uncomplicatedly warm, except when cricket or rugby are involved. When they are, he often finds himself, as he is now, battling the urge to not only throttle the other nation, but also to ensure that he prolonged the experience as much as possible.   
  
"I can't imagine." England is nevertheless able to force a smile to his own lips, because he is, after all, stronger than all of his inappropriate urges, whatever their source. "So, did you come over here for a reason, or did you just want to gloat. Pre-emptively, I might add."  
  
"There's a seat free next to me, and I thought Al here might like a change of scenery after lunch," Australia says, slinging a companionable arm around America's shoulders. "I noticed he was fast asleep earlier. Your commentary must be _fascinating_."   
  
America does not protest that, which does not surprise England. His refusal of the offer, however, does. England can only think that America imagines, quite rightly, that Australia's own brand of commentary will be provided at such a high volume that it will be impossible for him to doze off again if needs be.


	4. 'Date' Four

**4th April, 2009; London, England**  
_(Day following a G-20 Summit; England's London residence)_

 

  
Somehow, the lamb is burnt on the outside and completely raw on the inside. England doesn't know how it keeps happening, because he always carefully ensures that his oven is pre-heated to exactly the right temperature before starting a roast, and follows cooking times down to the last second. Added to which, the peas resemble nothing better than green buckshot in consistency, ricocheting off the plate if a fork or knife is applied to them, and the potatoes, lumps of coal.  
  
England has suspected for quite some time that his continuing disappointments in the kitchen – most considerable, he has noted, whenever he cooks for company; everything he prepares solely for his own consumption turns out perfectly fine – are due to the lingering effects of some curse or other that Scotland must have cast on him when they were younger. It bears all of his brother's hallmarks, being neither particularly painful nor overtly dangerous; just extremely annoying. Embarrassing England in some way rather than hurting him seemed to have been his goal most of the time: witness the three and a half months England's hair was indelibly stained blue, or the time when everything he touched swelled to several times its original size, something which had made pissing both physically difficult and mentally harrowing for the fortnight of the spell's duration.  
  
Turning a pastime that England otherwise enjoyed into a trial fraught with frustration and potential humiliation was right up Scotland's alley, and it would have been bearable if it had been as short-lived as all of his other curses. It has, however, resisted all of the spells and rituals England has attempted in order to remove it, and he has simply had to learn how to cope with it. He has found that a certain amount of both brazenness and wilful ignorance goes a long way in that regard. If he acts like there's nothing wrong, if he believes in it strongly enough, then surely he can convince others of the same.  
  
Unfortunately, it is one piece of magical thinking which has never appeared to work very well for him.  
  
"For heaven's sake, just cut it _here_ ," England tells America, pointing at the most charred portion of his lamb, when he tires of watching the other nation stare down at his plate like he's not entirely sure what he should be doing with it, the knife and fork clutched in his hands notwithstanding. "And _here_." He points to the bloodiest part. "The bit in between is perfectly fine."  
  
England follows his own advice with his slices of meat, and discovers that that leaves him with nothing but slivers which are little wider than his index and middle fingers pressed together. It's not a very inspiring sight, but one which would be improved, England's sure, by the liberal application of gravy.  
  
He picks up the gravy boat, and tips it towards his plate. And tips. And tips. And keeps tipping until the boat is completely upside down. He shakes it, but not one dribble of gravy escapes. It just wobbles, set to the sides of its container like the most unappetising jelly ever created. England sighs, and scrapes a few shavings of the glutinous mass onto his greens with the side of his fork.  
  
"Gravy?" he asks afterwards, offering the boat to America.  
  
America swallows audibly, and shakes his head. "No, thanks."  
  
"Tuck in before it gets cold, then," England prompts when America returns to eyeing his meal in silence once more. "I assure you it's not poisonous."  
  
He places a large forkful of meat into his own mouth to demonstrate. It tastes of nothing but carbon and, oddly, fish.  
  
"Though it could perhaps do with a pinch more salt," he says, reaching for the cellar.  
  
Afterwards, America follows England's lead and adds a little salt to his own food, then attacks it with admirable gusto. Judging by his relaxed expression, he doesn't seem to find it too objectionable, after all. 

 

* * *

  
  
England eventually manages to pry the sticky toffee pudding out of its tin, but it bounces when it hits the plate beneath it, dense and elastic as rubber.  
  
And the custard, England's culinary nemesis of old, is more lump than liquid.  
  
He surreptitiously shovels the whole lot into the bin, and then says, "I picked up some lovely biscuits at M&S that we can have with our tea."

 

* * *

  
  
     _Pour a little water from the kettle into the teapot, swirl, and then pour it down the sink. Switch kettle on again._

  
England finds the process of preparing tea incredibly soothing. Even more than drinking it, sometimes.

  
    _Add three teabags to the teapot – one for America, one for himself, and one for the pot – and fill with freshly boiling water._

  
  
During the Great War, France was forever poking fun at him and his brothers for their habit of reaching for their tea rations rather than something stronger whenever their trench came under heavy bombardment; how they sat clutching their tin mugs even as artillery shells roared through the air, and blasted earth rained down on their heads.

  
  
_Put two cups and saucers – cardstock-thin and patterned with sprays of tiny pink roses – onto a tray._  
  


The ritual of tea-making, the familiar rhythm, allows England to carve out a piece of calm – of home – from just about any situation, however; whether it be a trench under fire, yet another dislocated night spent in some bland and unmemorable hotel room, or an evening which has started off badly and England fears might only get worse.  
  


_Place a plate of biscuits next to them. (The biscuits are not taken from the original packet opened for Canada's visit, which had been discovered and devoured, but from the second that England had hidden at the back of the cupboard where he keeps his cleaning supplies; somewhere his other houseguests avoid on principle)._  
  


Back then, it had helped ease the shaking of his hands, if only for a little while, and now it occupies his mind and keeps it from dwelling on the utter fucking travesty of cookery he'd perpetrated upon a fine cut of British lamb.

  
      
    _Fetch milk to fill_ –  
  


As England starts towards the fridge, he almost collides with America, who, for some reason, had been standing directly behind him; not even a foot away. England's heart makes a shocked lurch towards his throat – he hadn't heard America get up from his seat at the kitchen table, and so hadn't even thought to prepare himself for the possibility of him being so fucking close – and he hurriedly steps backwards until the edge of the countertop nudges against his spine.  
  
"What the hell are you doing?" England asks when he manages to unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth. "Almost gave me a bloody heart attack to turn around and see you fucking looming over me."  
  
"I wasn't looming," America protests, and to England's horror, he actually moves a little closer.  
  
In response, England curls his hands around the countertop to halt the reflexive need to press them against America's chest. It is not, he thinks, a desire to pull him closer that fuels it, but quite the opposite. There's a certain weight to his presence that can't easily be explained by the inch or so of height he has on England, or the added breadth of his shoulders. He always makes England feel very crowded whenever he stands nearby, in a way that Scotland never does despite being half a head taller again than America, and almost twice as broad.  
  
"I was just watching," America continues. "What happened to that metal doohickey you used to use to make tea?"  
  
"The infuser? I don't think I could even tell you where it is. I barely ever drink loose leaf tea nowadays." England is unsurprised that America has never noticed that change; he doesn't usually take such a keen interest in England's tea preparations, after all. "Tea bags are so much easier."  
  
"They were invented by one of my people, you know," America says, leaning yet further towards England until he can… Jesus, England can feel his warm breath fanning across his face.  
  
England quickly snatches up the tea tray to use as a shield against any greater encroachment into his personal space. The two glasses of wine America had drunk before their meal have clearly gone straight to his head; whenever he's tipsy, he forgets that England's version of that particular concept extends far wider than most people's, and he's probably mere moments away from clasping England's shoulder or patting him on the back.  
  
"I am well aware of that, America." As performing either of those gestures will likely result in America getting drenched in scalding hot water as things stand, with England's nerves already on edge, he thinks it's probably high time they move elsewhere. Somewhere he can ensure that America keeps himself at a decent distance. "Could you grab the milk for me, please? We can take our tea in the parlour."     
  


 

* * *

  
  
  
When they were younger, America and Canada had seemed convinced that England kept his parlour locked whenever they visited because he used it to store some sort of fantastical treasure or other he didn't want them to see.  
  
It has never held any treasures of the sort England's sure the boys were imagining, only those items in his possession that he liked to have on display, but that were fragile enough that he could not risk them being subjected any rough handling. Even now, he is loath to open up the parlour usually, because it houses the most delicate of his Spode and Derby porcelain, and the finest examples of the collection of agricultural paintings (or, as Scotland insists on referring to them, his 'Ode to the Rectangular Cow') he started amassing at the beginning of the nineteenth century during his gentleman farmer phase.  
  
Unlike Canada, however, America seems distinctly unimpressed by his first visit to the room he used to be so determined to break into. There is none of the hesitance his brother displayed, none of the obvious fascination, just the blunt observations that the William Morris inspired wallpaper is 'ugly' and the Chippendale armchair he flings himself onto so heavily that it makes England worry for the integrity of the aged mahogany is 'uncomfortable'.  
  
When the chair fails to collapse, England forbears to comment on America's thoughtlessness, and concentrates on pouring out their tea.  
  
"I meant to ask earlier, but did your brother get off okay this morning?" he asks, handing America a cup.  
  
"Yeah, but it was a pretty close call," America says, taking both the cup and a small mountain of biscuits before he leans back in his chair. "You know what he's like; we had to go back to the hotel three times to pick up stuff he'd forgotten to pack."  
  
England chuckles as he settles himself into his own chair; close, but not too close, to America's. "I just discovered this afternoon that he'd managed to leave a few of his ties here after he stayed on Tuesday, which I presume explains why he was wearing that one with the shagging frogs on it yesterday. Could you let him know that I'll send them on for him?"  
  
"I will." America grins briefly, no doubt recalling Canada's horrible tie and his unsuccessful attempts throughout the day at disguising the fact he was wearing it. "Hey, speaking of brothers, where are yours? I thought they were staying with you."  
  
"They are, unfortunately." Thankfully, England's only going to be lumbered with Scotland for the weekend, but God only knows when he'll get shot of Wales, who had appeared on his doorstep a week before, fresh from being dumped by the latest in his long line of human lovers, and shows no sign of pissing off back home again in the near future. It's Wales' protracted visit that has necessitated England's unwilling use of his parlour, as his brother has taken to spending all of his time in the living room, and seems incapable of tidying up after himself whilst he's in his doldrums. "But they took themselves off to the pub at lunchtime, and no doubt they'll be making a night of it, too."  
  
"So they're probably not going to be back any time soon?"  
  
"I shouldn't think so."  
  
America nods once, and then turns his attention to drinking his tea and munching his way through his pile of biscuits.  
  
When he's finished both, however, he doesn't try to strike up another conversation; he simply stares at England, and there's something expectant in his expression that makes England slightly uncomfortable.  
  
He is, England suspects, waiting for England to speak first for some reason, but he may well be waiting for some time if that is the case. England and America seldom spend any time alone with each other outside of those instances when their work demands private meetings, and, on the rare occasions they do, there is always something else going on that takes up most of their attention: a game to play, a film to watch, or cricket to explain, for example. There is never _this_ , just of the two of them and an oppressive silence gathering that needs to be pierced. England has never been particularly skilled at talking for talking's sake, though, and every topic he considers raising would no doubt either die on its arse in short order or cause an argument. He and America have such differing tastes in so many things – films, books and TV programmes included – that it seems unlikely they'll find common ground enough for any such conversation to be a pleasant experience for either of them.  
  
The tick of the grandfather clock at the far end of the room seems impossibly loud.  
  
England hurriedly turns again towards the safe refuge of tea, taking his time over re-filling both their cups in order to prolong the moment wherein he doesn't have to resort to matters meteorological in despair; a conclusion he fears is fast approaching.  
  
He is saved from it, however, by the sound of the front door opening. Even though it heralds the early return of his brothers, who will no doubt be paralytic by this point, it's a more than welcome distraction.  
  
America raises his eyebrows questioningly, but England can only shrug. "I thought they'd be out longer, but perhaps they got kicked out of the pub. It happens a lot when they visit. I'm surprised the landlord hasn't barred them."  
  
Unsteady footsteps echo down the hall, and then Wales appears in the parlour doorway.  
  
"Well, I wasn't kicked out, but I wouldn't be surprised if _Yr Alban_ is later, given the rate he's putting it away," he says, his words remarkably coherent. He actually looks almost sober, which is has become something of a rarity over the past few days; eyes clear and posture unbowed. "I couldn't keep up, so I thought I'd just leave him to it. Jim said he'd put him in a taxi if it looked like he wasn't going to be able to walk home, so he should be fine."  
  
"Hey, Wales," America says, raising one hand in a lazy wave. He doesn't look pleased to see Wales, but not really displeased, either. Blank, England would call his expression if pressed, and not exactly welcoming.  
  
Wales reacts by taking a step back even as he says, "Hi, America." He yawns exaggeratedly – obviously faked as its not even nine o'clock and Wales has been doing very little other than sleep when he's not drinking recently –  stretching his arms up above his head. "Well, I'm knackered, so –"  
  
"Why don't you sit with us for a little while?" England asks, clinging on desperately to the chance of escape offered by Wales' timely interruption. He's even willing to put up with yet another recitation of Wales' tribulations with Cerys and the pottery-class-bastard Rhys if it means he isn't left alone again with the silence that feels, oddly, like it's asking something he does not know how to answer. "I'll make another pot of tea."


	5. 'Date' Five

**27th December, 2009; Kent, England**   
_(The day following the complete bloody fiasco that England's family turned his Boxing Day in to; near Canterbury)_   
  


  
If he can't solve a problem with either tea or alcohol, then Scotland's next suggestion is always hiking.   
  
Gaping head wound? Just need to stretch your legs. Raging fever? Nothing that a bit of fresh air won't fix. The after-effects of a party which ended in a violent argument when all the host had wanted was to get through one fucking family gathering without the need for police involvement or visits to A&E? Of course the only possible course of action is to just walk it all off.  
  
Scotland had not had any takers when he first proposed his idea over breakfast; probably because it was a fucking ridiculous one. Everyone bar Sealand was nursing either an injury, a hangover, or both, and had only just been able to make the onerous trek from their beds to the kitchen.  
  
He had not been deterred, however, and after a mere quarter of an hour's intensive badgering, Wales – who could be remarkably spineless at times under such onslaughts from their brother – had finally agreed to accompany him. France conceded defeat not long afterwards, persuaded by uncertain means that England did not care to ponder too deeply as he was fairly certain that they had involved wiles of some sort.  
  
England hoped that wiles weren't the reason behind America's last minute announcement that he also wanted to tag along; Scotland certainly wouldn't have deployed them, but France could never be trusted in that regard, so-called 'committed relationship' or no. And England had found himself following America as though tugged along by some invisible lead, despite the fact that he had planned to spend the day lying down in a darkened room alternating between drinking Alka Seltzer and Lucozade.   
  
His spur of the moment decision had earned him a knowing smirk from Scotland, and a snort of laughter from Wales, but seeing as though England was Not Speaking to either of them following their disgraceful behaviour of the previous day, he didn't even attempt to justify himself, and simply let his index and middle fingers do the talking for him.  
  
There had then followed one of the more unpleasant hours of England's life. Travelling in Scotland's horrible clapped-out old banger was a trial in and of itself at the best of times, doubly so when it was carrying more than three people and leg space was at a high premium, and triply, quadrupley, quintupley so when one was forced to listen to Scotland and France arguing about Scotland's erratic driving, Wales whinging about his queasy stomach, and America's repeated attempts at engaging them all in inane car games for the duration.  
  
England had actually found himself approving of Scotland's habitual speeding for once, however, because no matter how hair-raising his breakneck turns and last-second stops at red lights were, at least it ended up shaving almost an hour off their journey time.  
  


 

* * *

  
  
  
As he very rarely gets hangovers himself, it never crosses Scotland's mind to make allowances for those who do. Consequently, the pace he sets for their walk is punishing, and Wales, England and America soon start dropping further and further behind.  
  
Wales bows out not even half an hour in, announcing that he 'feels inspired' and simply has to get his thoughts down on paper whilst the mood is upon him. Although the scenery is stunning – Kent is called the 'Garden of England' for good reason – England suspects his brother is rather more inspired towards crawling under a bush and having a nap, chill wind and icy ground notwithstanding, than rhapsodising about the munificence of mother nature.

France, however, seems to be keeping good pace with Scotland, despite his aversion towards exerting himself fully-clothed. Admittedly, he doesn't have much choice in the matter, because…  
  
"They're _holding hands_ now," England says, nodding towards his brother and France as they reappear into view beyond a small dip in the path ahead. "Can you believe that?"  
  
America makes the same sort of disinterested hum in reply as he had previously whenever England pointed out that Scotland had France pressed up against a tree, or France had slipped an arm around Scotland's waist. He doesn't even bother looking at the two of them, keeping his eyes downcast, apparently fixed on his shoes and the small sprays of frost covered pebbles he kicks up with every step.  
  
"They're acting like teenagers," England continues, because America really doesn't seem to understand the gravity of the situation. "In fact, they never even used to act like this when they were younger. Or, if they did, they at least had the decency to do it behind closed doors. You must have noticed that they can't seem to keep their hands off each other lately? Pretty hard to miss, I suppose, given that they seem determined to flaunt it in everyone's faces at the slightest fucking opportunity. I wouldn't be surprised if they're off shagging in the undergrowth by the time we –"  
  
America chuckles. "You're starting to sound a little jealous," he says.  
  
"Jealous?" The idea is so preposterous that it barely deserves refuting, but England still feels it necessary to do so lest America is convinced there's some grain of truth to it if it he stays silent. "I've yet to discover one quality the frog possesses to recommend him, and Scotland…" Is argumentative, bull-headed, crass, bad tempered, and, most importantly: "Scotland's my _brother_. Why the hell would I be _jealous_?"  
  
"I didn't mean of either of them." America's shoulders lift in a quick shrug. "Just, you know, in general."  
  
That accusation is much harder to refute. So much so that a glib denial doesn't roll easily off England's tongue, and his hesitation becomes a lengthy pause becomes a prolonged, awkward silence before he finally manages to formulate one and splutter it out.    
  
The delay was no doubt damning, and England cringes inwardly, anticipating laughter, or mockery, or…Or _something_ , at least. Anything. But America says nothing, and his expression is completely unreadable.   
  
If it were anyone else, England would say they were poker-faced. The term has always seemed laughable when applied to America, given how crap he is at that particular game solely because he is seemingly completely incapable of not broadcasting his every passing thought and emotion loud and clear, his opinions on the strength of his hand included. Or was incapable, at least; there have been a number of occasions like this over the past few years when England has found himself unable to even begin to intuit America's mood.  
  
It's a slightly unsettling development – England could always take comfort in knowing exactly where he stood before – and one whose origins have always proven too complicated a puzzle for England to solve, even without the disadvantage of sluggishness that two days of festive excess have lent to his thought processes.  
  
That, at least, is a problem which is easily rectified.  
  
"How do you fancy finding ourselves a pub?" he asks America.  
  


 

* * *

  
  
  
England had had no plans on getting drunk, only self-medicating with a little hair of the dog, but he thinks he's going to be in short order so if he keeps up his current pace. Two pints in, and America is still in the midst of telling the long-winded story he'd started upon when they first took their table.   
  
England thinks it has something to do with an evening America had spent with Canada and Prussia – a month ago; everyone knew about that particular development long before England and his brothers, it seems – during which Prussia behaved like a complete arse. As 'complete arse' is Prussia's natural state of being, none of his behaviour was anything that England hadn't personally witnessed on numerous occasions over the many years of their acquaintance, and so he's finding it difficult to keep his mind from wandering.  
  
Unfortunately, it insists on wandering towards America's accusation earlier, no matter how concerted England's efforts to divert it. Every cognitive bypass he travels down – admiring the scenic watercolours that decorate the pub's walls; mentally critiquing the pint of Boddingtons he's been forced to drink because there's no better beer on offer; even, in desperation, trying to enumerate the floorboards between his table and the bar – somehow still leads him to the same place. To the same fucking question:   
  
_Am I jealous?_  
  
It's not a simple one to answer. When he was younger, and his emotions tended to run much higher, he was; almost constantly. Not just jealous, but angry that he was to be forever denied something that seemed to inform such a large part of so many people's lives.  
  
Centuries past that rush of hormones and resentment, he finds such feelings tend to wax and wane. They happen to be waxing at the moment, but that will no doubt pass, given time and determination.  
  
He can't even blame it all on America, because it's not just informed by lust, which is something he's much better equipped to handle than in his youth by dint of centuries' worth of practise. The realisation had been both infuriating and humiliating to acknowledge, but once he did, it became glaringly obvious that it's grown steadily worse since devolution.   
  
The vast majority of the time, he'd hated being forced to live with his brothers – hated the fighting, the lack of privacy, the constant picking at every little thing he said and did – but since they moved out again, he's found that occasionally the house is just too quiet. That he misses having someone he could speak with any time he wished, no matter that he had had arguments far more often than he ever did conversations back then.  
  
He likes to think that, after nearly five hundred years, it's simply jarring to be living completely on his own, because it's better than the alternative. How can he be lonely, after all, when he has the fae? And they will always be there, only a call or an incantation away; never as fickle in their attentions as humans or even nations.  
  
Unless, of course, England were to have sex.   
  
It's always seemed a strange requirement to England, as he's not sure why it should matter to them what he does with his genitals, but Scotland had been insistent all those centuries ago that they value chastity above all else. Bodily chastity of a very specific sort, thankfully, seems to be sufficient for them, because England has _never_ been particularly chaste in thought.  
  


 

* * *

 

  
Unlike his brothers, England doesn't even have any human friends to compensate.   
  
His relationships with his bosses, and the other politicians and civil servants he deals with during his working day are generally good, but don't extend beyond clocking-off time. Jim, the landlord of his local, seems to like him, but England suspects that's likely due to the large amount of cash he spends in his establishment on a regular basis. Beyond Jim, there are a few fellow classic car and real ale enthusiasts he enjoys talking to on occasion, but he would hardly call them friends.  
  
If there's some mystical bond that's supposed to attract his people to him, England has certainly never been able to tap into it. Not in his civilian life, at least. In wartime, he's always been humbled by the unwavering respect and faith offered to him by the troops under his command, but that connection is one he can never seem to recapture in peacetime.   
  
America, however, has always seemed able to charm England's people just as easily as he does his own. He had struck up an easy conversation at the bar with one of the locals whilst he was buying his and England's next drinks, and had subsequently been invited to join a game of darts that was apparently just about to start up.  
  
He stops by their table for just long enough to drop off England's fifth pint before taking himself and his second glass of Coke away to take up the offer. He doesn't think to ask England along.  
  
England goes back to the bar to buy himself a whiskey chaser.  
  


 

* * *

  
  
  
America proves just as skilled at darts as any other sport he tries his hand at, and England finds himself so distracted by watching him hit bullseye after bullseye that he doesn't think to check his caller ID before he answers his mobile.  
  
"Where the hell are you?" greets him as he does.  
  
England scowls. He can't very well cancel the call, that would be unconscionably rude no matter who the caller, but there is the small matter of: "I'm not talking to you."  
  
"Bloody hell, grow the fuck up, England," Scotland growls. "I've already apologised, and, if you recall, it wasn't _all_ my fault…" He sighs loudly. "Never mind, I'm not getting into this again. So, which pub are you in, then?"  
  
If the sound of the rather spirited darts game in progress hadn't tipped Scotland off, England's sure that his slightly – only _slightly_ – slurred speech might have done. "And have you and the frog inflict yourselves upon us? No, thank you."  
  
"Us? Is Wales there with you? We couldn't find him anywhere, either."  
  
"No, last I saw of him, he was going off to write some poetry. Or so he said; I wouldn't be surprised if he's just passed out in a ditch somewhere."  
  
"So you're with America, then?" The irritation that was so plain in Scotland's voice evaporates completely. "Well, we don't want to disturb your date. We'll go and try to find Wales again, and leave you to it."  
  
Scotland disconnects the call midway through England's assertion that it most certainly is not a date, because he, apparently, cares not one whit for the niceties of phone etiquette.   
  
For a moment, England contemplates ringing his brother straight back in order to finish correcting him, but there seems little point. Since August, Scotland has been strangely preoccupied with England and America's relationship, such as it is. Despite knowing better than anyone just what is at stake, he seems determined to persuade England that he _has_ got a choice.   
  
_Shit or get off the pot_ , as he had so eloquently put it on Boxing Day.  
  
Shitting, to stretch the analogy, is out of the question, but the other? England's not sure he has the strength for that.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
England's sixth pint sits forgotten on the table for the time being, because America has stopped playing darts and has started playing pool with his newfound friends.  
  
His jeans pull tight and snug across his arse every time he leans forward to take a shot, and England's mouth is dry, his fingers curled tight against his palms as he fights with the need to push America further across the pool table, and.. And…  
  
He never feels like this around India anymore, or even Portugal. He is perfectly capable of spending time with them nowadays, and feeling nothing more than a dull ache of regret and longing. There's none of the urgency, the hot itch under his skin he can't hope to scratch.   
  
But then he's had so much longer to grow used to it, to learn to suppress it, and maybe that's all he needs with America: time and distance. Sixty-odd years are little more than a blink of an eye in comparison, after all.  
  
It's infuriating to concede that his brother's right, but England's going to have to find the strength to step back. To accept that spending time with America is more painful than pleasurable right now, and give himself the space he needs to let go of the futile hope he's allowed to flourish for far too long already.

  
  


* * *

 

  
It occurs to England halfway through his seventh pint that America might take exception to England simply refusing to spend time with him outside work.   
  
In recent years, it has become more common, if still not normal, for them to spend their free time together when they're in each other's countries outside the usual round of G-8, G-20 and World meetings. He probably owes America some sort of explanation before he cuts such visits off completely.   
  
And there still remains the infinitesimal chance that America's feelings towards England mirror England's own towards him. The odds are ludicrously long, but, still, England really should let him know that he should move on, and probably with a great deal more subtlety than he had used when he'd told Portugal the same thing.  
  
Unfortunately, he can't think of any way of doing either thing other than telling America the truth. A truth that only Scotland and Wales had hitherto been party to. It is, he fears, as subtle as he is capable of being at the moment.  
  
He probably shouldn't have allowed himself to drink quite so much.   
  


 

* * *

  
  
  
America reappears at the table as England is polishing off his latest glass of whiskey.   
  
"Your brother just called," he says. "He wants us to meet him back at the car. Oh, and, apparently, if you throw up in it, you can walk home."  
  
"Like it would make any difference to that heap of junk," England says. Or tries to say; the words are there in his mind, his mouth opens and closes in the right way, but all that actually comes out is a meaningless jumble of unconnected syllables.  
  
"Okay," America says slowly. "How much have you had to drink, Arthur?"  
  
At last count, it was nine pints, five shots of whiskey, and if the strong taste of aniseed lingering at the back of his throat is anything to go by, at least one shot of sambuca, although he doesn't remember having bought any.   
  
"Enough," he says, because it's easier than reeling off the list.  
  
"Do you think you can make it to the car?" America's slightly concerned expression suggests that he very much doubts England's abilities to that end.  
  
Which is absolutely absurd, because England has drunk far, far more on many occasions, and still managed to make it back home under his own steam. When he gets to his feet, however, the ground beneath him seems to drop away for a instant before surging back up again just as suddenly.   
  
"Arthur?"   
  
America's hand curls around England's wrist as though in an attempt to hold him steady, but England shakes it away. It's just like finding his balance onboard a ship, really; something which is second nature to England. He doesn't need a helping hand.  
  
"Jus' need to find my sea legs," he tells America, and then sets about proving that by walking towards the front door of the pub.  
      
He may well weave a little along the way there, but as he doesn't fall on his arse or spur America into making another grab for him, he considers it a complete victory.  
  
"See, 'm fine," he tells America.  
  
"The car's still quite a long way off," America points out, pissing liberally all over England's moment of triumph.  
  
" _'m fine_ ," England insists. "Stop worryin'"  
  
  


* * *

  
  
England's certainty lasts for no more than quarter of a mile.   
  
The ground is not only dipping up and down now, but rolling from side to side as if it's determined to trip England up, and it's taking almost all of his concentration to stay upright, never mind moving forward. America keeps making the situation worse by catching hold of England's elbow whenever he stumbles, because then all England can think of is how warm and strong his fingers are, and he completely forgets how to keep his balance or put one foot in front of the other.  
  
England needs to tell him now, before he has chance to think better of it and he's full of Dutch courage. Maybe he'll back the fuck off, then.  
  
"You asked earlier if I was jealous," he says, and the words are the clearest he's spoken for the last half-hour or so, even if they are said in a sudden rush.  
  
"Yeah?" The lenses of America's glasses catch the moonlight as he tilts his head towards England, and the glare obscures his eyes.  
  
"I suppose I am, a little." England's throat closes up, pulled tight with a mixture of embarrassment and fear. He swallows heavily to loosen it before continuing: "I can't shag anyone, you see. In the undergrowth or anywhere else. 'd lose my magic if I did. And the fae. So I never have. And I never will."  
  
"Wow, it really sucks that you believe that, England," America says, and there is nothing, absolutely nothing, in either his tone or his expression that suggests that he feels anything about the revelation other than faint sympathy. Or perhaps, even worse, _pity_.  
  
There seems little reason after that to bring up the second point England had thought might be needed. It's clearly not necessary, as it appears that England's 'getting off the pot' won't trouble America at all.


	6. Interlude

**5th July, 2010; Washington, D.C., USA**  
_(The morning following a[very eventful birthday party](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1042314); America's house)_

  
  
England's first thought upon waking isn't about America, or the night they just shared, or even the deep, unfamiliar ache of his muscles which twinge as he shifts his position.  
  
England's first thought is about the fae, and his first words, hushed and rough with sleep, are ancient ones. An incantation he has used since he had voice to speak it in order to call them to him.  
  
They do not appear.  
  
He repeats it little louder; loud enough that the arm he hadn't even noticed was draped across his chest tightens around him, and America mumbles something that might be his name.  
  
They still do not appear.  
  
But perhaps, perhaps, they can't hear him even now.  


( _They have always come before, whether he spoke in a whisper, or little more than a breath gasped out when he was in fear for his life, but the alternative is… England doesn't allow himself to contemplate it._ )

  
He disentangles himself from America, and gets out of the bed, ignoring the question directed towards him.  


( _He doesn't even register the exact words, just that America sounds concerned. And well he might be, because England's hands are trembling so badly that he can barely keep hold of his clothes as he gathers them up from where they lay scattered across the floor; almost tears them when he yanks them on. He leaves his shirt unbuttoned, his trousers simply zipped because his fingers are too clumsy for more._ )

  
America's voice follows him as he leaves the bedroom, but he slams the door on it; on his concern. In the hallway outside, he tries the incantation again. Shouts it as loudly as he has breath for.  
  
Nothing. Not even the distant flutter of wings.  


( _But his breath is short, and his lungs burn with the effort if he tries to draw in even a little more air. It's not enough.  Clearly, it's still not enough. He should go outside; the fae have never liked being constrained between four walls, and perhaps they will not come if he's close to America. Although it never has before, perhaps America's lack of belief in them is keeping them away, and if England only puts enough distance between them, then…_ )  


He vaguely registers Wales' presence as he stumbles out into America's backyard, but ignores the hand raised to him in greeting, and his brother's cheery, "Morning, Lloegr," is lost to the rush of blood in his ears. England looks up into the morning-pinked sky and screams the incantation to the heavens. Again and again, until it tears at his throat like blades, and the pain brings tears to his eyes.

  
( _Every call goes unanswered. His fucking bastard brothers_ lied _to him; must have wanted to drag him down to their level because they couldn't bear the thought of…_ )

  
England doesn't hear Wales' approach, but a hand suddenly drops onto his shoulder, and the smell of fresh cigarette smoke surrounds him. "Jesus Christ, what the hell's wrong with you?"  
  
England swings a punch on instinct, but it doesn't connect, and Wales catches his clenched fist before he can try again.  
  
" _Lloegr_ , you're –"  
  
"You lied to me," England says, wrenching his hand free. His voice is nothing more than a exhausted croak, weak and ragged. "I've lost them. Why the fuck did you tell me I wouldn't? Do you both hate me that much even now?"  
  
"What the…? The _fae_? Is that what you were screeching about?" Wales' face looks indistinct and out-of-focus, but England thinks he may have the sheer, unmitigated gall to be smiling. "I couldn't even tell what you were supposed to be saying, so they sure as hell won't be able to. Your pronunciation was completely off."  
  
The pressure at England's breast eases slightly, lightening with a tentative swell of hope. "My pronunciation?"  
  
Wales nods. "It's appalling. And your inflection's completely screwed, probably because your voice is so fucking hoarse. Were you back on the fags again last night? Or did you…" Wales' words cut off abruptly, and the chuckle that replaces them sounds distinctly embarrassed. "It doesn't really matter why it happened. Look, just... Just leave it to me, okay?"  
  
Wales' voice as he intones the spell is strong and resonant, imbuing it with all the necessary concentrated power that England realises his recitation had lacked. It has been centuries since England last heard his brother use magic, and he'd forgotten in the interim how beautiful it had always sounded, almost as though he were singing rather than chanting.  
  
It's been centuries, too, since he last saw his brother's fae. They're nothing more than dancing points of bright light until he rubs at his eyes, and then they resolve themselves into tiny figures that look much like England's own fae, except their similarly pointed features form faces he does not recognise.  
  
He finds himself reaching for the closest – perched on Wales' shoulder, lacy wings folded tightly against her back – without thinking.  
  
"I wouldn't if I were you," Wales says, stepping back quickly. "Sorry to say, but they still don't really like you very much. Just like yours have never liked me, remember? You know, I accidentally stumbled across one of them at your house a few years back, and I think I surprised it so much that it forgot it could just dematerialise, or whatever it is they do. Vicious little bugger went for me." Wales claws his fingers in demonstration. "Nearly had my bloody hand off."  
  
"Oh," England says, dropping his own hand back down to his side. "Sorry about that, I suppose."  
  
"Wasn't your fault." Wales shrugs, and the fairy on his shoulder squeaks in indignation, grabbing on to Wales' shirt collar to stop herself from falling. "Evil looking bastard, it was. A gnome, I think. Red hat, blue coat, teeth like a fucking piranha."  
  
The description's familiar.  
  
"That would be George," England tells his brother. "He does tend to be a bit grumpy."  
  
One of Wales' eyebrows arches upwards. "George?" he says, smirking. "Why on earth do you call him George?"  
  
The gnome's perpetually disgruntled expression reminds him very strongly of one of their old kings of the same name, but that fancy seems so ridiculous that England can't bring himself to admit to it. In fact, he feels slightly ridiculous, full stop, and when Wales starts laughing, England can't help but join in. His laughter is buoyed along by the giddiness of fast-spreading relief – he's not lost them; he can't have, not if they still come to Wales, whom England has long suspected could give even the frog a run for his money when it comes to shagging – and continues until his stomach starts to ache so much that he fears he might be sick from it.  
  
"Breathe," Wales says, taking hold of one of England's arms and shaking him lightly. "And wipe your face."  
  
England tries to match the rhythm of his breathing to his brother's – slow in, slow out – and his laughter does eventually subside sufficiently that he can gasp out, "Wipe my face?" through the last few hitching spasms of it.  
  
"I'm going to do something you probably won't like very much in a minute, but, for my sake, I'd rather you cleaned yourself up first. You're looking a little… sticky."  
  
England swipes his free arm quickly across his face, and is surprised to see that his sleeve is sticky and wet afterwards. "I was crying," he says.  
  
He hadn't noticed.  
  
"Absolutely bawling," Wales clarifies. "Right, that's better. Now please don't punch me for this."  
  
Before England has even had chance to ponder exactly what 'this' might entail, Wales pulls him forward into a hug.  
  
England attempts to flinch away from the contact – it's is an ingrained reaction, subconscious, and so hard-wired into him by now that he can't even begin to fight it – but Wales' arms lock tight against his back, holding him in place.  
  
"Fucking hell, England, neither of us hates you." Although Wales' voice is quiet, a low rumble against England's ear, the words are still forceful somehow; heartfelt, England would like so much to believe. "We've never hated you. Well, at least not all the way down to where it really matters. And we are sorry about all this crap you've had to go through. I know you don't believe him, but Yr Alban really did think he was doing you a favour. He just never used to think his plans through very well."  
  
He still doesn't think things through, otherwise he would have told England that he lied a decade ago, not _three weeks ago_. And he would have found a better way of breaking that news than in a crowded fucking pub when England had been far too drunk to process it properly at first, and then had had no hope of being able to temper the intensity his reaction when he finally did.  
  
Still, with the lightness of his earlier joy still effervescing through his body, it's hard for the moment to feel the full ferocity of his anger, completely justified though it may be. And the hug is also disarming in its own way; Wales is much more likely to offer comfort by way of a shoulder or knee clasp, and England doesn't think they've embraced one another since VE day.  
  
Both of those facts combine to make him feel magnanimous enough to loop his own arms around Wales' waist and briefly draw him closer.  
  
"Don't think this means you're forgiven," he makes sure to point out, nevertheless, because he knows the feeling will doubtless be extremely short-lived.  
  
"I wouldn't dream of it," Wales says.


	7. First Date

**3rd August, 2010; London, England**  
_(A date of no particular significance; A Michelin starred restaurant not far from England's house)_

 

  
England thinks he may have his menu memorised.  
  
Indeed, when he briefly closes his eyes, he can still see the exact layout of the page, detailed enough that he can count the number of loops which make up the curlicues that separate the choices for one course from another.  
  
He switches out the menu for the wine list, because he'd only skimmed it earlier when they ordered their drinks, skipping over the detailed descriptions of the wines and heading straight for the one he knew had the highest alcohol content. Apparently, his perfectly nice but seemingly unremarkable red is: _Full-bodied and intense garnet in colour. Its fruity bouquet presents hints of cherries and blackberries. Smooth on the palate with a velvety structure_.  
  
Fascinating.     
  
England enjoys wine, but has never been able to pick out the subtleties in taste and texture that enthusiasts claim are there (a deficiency that France, of course, blames on the irreparable damage England has done to his palate with years of atrocious food). America, on the other hand, does occasionally take himself off for weekends at Californian vineyards to sniff, swill, spit and pontificate on 'woody notes' and 'floral bouquets'.  
  
A quick glance towards the other side of the table, however, indicates that America still hasn't taken one sip from his own glass of wine, and will be unable to confirm whether it does hint of cherries, blackberries or anything else.  
  
( _Ten minutes. Ten whole minutes they've sat here without a single word being spoken save for the two times they've had to send their poor waiter on his way when he came to take their food order_.)  
  
He seems thoroughly absorbed in his own menu; too absorbed to remember to drink, perhaps. With his eyebrows drawn close together, eyes narrowed to slits, and his bottom lip caught between his teeth, it looks as though he's attempting to decode some fiendishly difficult cipher rather than trying to decide between scallops and soup for his starter.  
  
Seeing his continued indecision as a perfect opportunity to break their silence, England offers, "I hear the venison here is excellent."  
  
All that sally earns him, though, is a disinterested-sounding, "Hmm," which doesn't inspire him towards venturing a similar opinion regarding the wood pigeon.  
  
Modern English, it seems, may not be to America's taste, after all. England had been a little unsure of his choice from the second he made it, but as his decision to forgo the official dinner arranged to follow his and America's meeting in preference of something more intimate was a spur of the moment one, his options had been somewhat limited from the start. He'd set his staff to pulling strings and calling in favours – a slight abuse of his position, admittedly, but a rare enough occurrence that England considers it a forgivable one – but that had still only resulted in two restaurants to decide between.  
  
Classic French probably would have been a safer bet.  
  
Although, going to that official dinner would have been the safest bet of all, because then he could easily have avoided talking to America all night, just as he'd avoided talking to him all day, and, indeed, for quite some time now. Three weeks and two days, to be precise.  
  
Through his many years of detached observation, England had become vaguely aware that there were certain rules he should observe following… the sort of night he and America had shared. One of those rules was that, apparently, a degree of studied indifference was expected and one should wait a little while before re-establishing contact so as not too appear too eager. Interest was acceptable, but eagerness was too close to _desperate_ , it seemed, and as the sixty-plus years of prior waiting had rendered eager somewhat of a gross understatement for England, he thought it best to err on the side of caution.  
  
The couple of days he had meant to defer his phone call for, however, became a week, became three weeks and two days, during which time he realised he wasn't even trying to avoid appearing desperate, he was trying to avoid having to hear that they'd had 'fun' but America had no desire for anything more. Not even a repeat performance.  
  
At least, England thought they'd had 'fun'. They'd both been more than a little worse for wear the night of America's party, and England's memories of it are a muddled mess of sensation that he can't form into a coherent narrative. A pleasant blur, but a blur, nevertheless. Perhaps America remembers more and that's why he never rang, and…  
  
And England is second guessing himself, just as he has for the last twenty-three days, and _asking_ is no easier with the two of them together alone again than it had been through the relatively impersonal medium of a phone line. Harder even, when they're surrounded by other people, whose laughter and conversation seems to make the enclosure of silence surrounding their table even more palpable.    
  
He tries to return his attention to the wine menu, but all of the 'note's and 'aromatic's and 'character's jumble themselves together into configurations that don't even begin to resemble logical sentences, and he probably should have gone home tonight, fuck official dinners _and_ their frankly ridiculous alternatives, and he could be watching his soaps, drinking tea, and putting it all off for yet another day, then –  
  
America's knife rattles against his wine glass as he puts his menu down on the table in front of him. When England looks up, startled by the noise and sudden movement both, he asks, "Arthur, is this a date?"  
  
"What?" England asks, even more surprised by the question. "Why wou–"  
  
England cuts himself of mid-word, because it suddenly occurs to him that, yes, America probably does have to ask. Looking back, England can see that hadn't exactly made his intentions clear, simply suggesting that perhaps America might like to dine somewhere quieter, away from the pressures of work that would no doubt follow them otherwise were they to spend their evening surrounded by politicians. It's nothing they haven't done before, although, admittedly, they usually make their escape to a pub or bar, rather than a restaurant.  
  
Still, it does offer England an easy escape in another sense. He doesn't have to say yes, after all. "Do you want it to be?" he asks, hedging his bets.  
  
"Do _you_?" America counters, hitting the conversational ball squarely back into England's court.  
  
Bastard.  
  
This could no doubt go on all night – "Well, that depends on what you want." – if they let it, and the thought is a tempting one, but what then? If they don't make themselves clear, here and now, then England will just worry and wonder until the next time they speak, and curse himself for not being brave enough to say one fucking word.  
  
"Yes," he says, and his voice cracks a little, squeaking embarrassingly, but at least it's out there. At least he'll know.  
  
And America smiles, so broadly that his eyes crinkle at the corners. "Awesome."  
  
"Awesome," England echoes without really thinking about what he's saying, feeling light and relieved, and returning America's grin to him double-fold, he's sure. It certainly feels that way, given how much his cheeks are aching. He no doubt looks bloody ridiculous, as it isn't an expression that he gets much practice with, but he finds he doesn't really care.     
  
America laughs a little breathlessly. "I was starting to get a bit worried," he admits.  
  
"Worried?"  
  
"Well, it doesn't do a guy's ego much good to have someone running off crying the morning after, you know. Wales did say it wasn't anything to do with me, but then you didn't call or anything, so…"  
  
England hadn't even thought to consider that America might have actually have been awaiting the phone call he hadn't been brave enough to make. That he might be experiencing some of the very same concerns England had felt, but: "You could have rung me."  
  
"Wales also said I should give you some space," America says, shrugging.  
  
"Jesus Christ," England says irritably, "and you actually listened to him? Since when have my brothers ever given decent advice about, well, anything at all."  
  
America's laughter this time is loud and hearty, and his expression is so open and openly _happy_ , in a way that England hasn't seen directed towards him in _years_. It reminds him vividly of when he first realised that his feelings towards America might have changed, back during the Second World War when they were all worn and tired, becoming desperate, and even Scotland's stubborn will had bowed under the weight of a grief he would barely acknowledge and no-one else dared touch. But America was all golden hope and promise, and England had finally seen him as a man and not simply as the little boy he'd once been, playing at being an adult.  
  
It had been the birth of the damnable itch that had plagued England for decades, that still plagues him, but it suddenly occurs to him that he doesn't have to ignore it anymore. He can, for example, suggest to America that they sod the whole idea of a meal and go straight back to England's house, instead.  
  
America agrees with extremely satisfying alacrity.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Puncture wounds](https://archiveofourown.org/works/993596) by [katiebuttercup](https://archiveofourown.org/users/katiebuttercup/pseuds/katiebuttercup)
  * [Slipping](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1105019) by [katiebuttercup](https://archiveofourown.org/users/katiebuttercup/pseuds/katiebuttercup)




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